


no atheists in foxholes

by peantutbutter



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Battle Buddies, Battle Buddies (Achievement Hunter), Canon-Typical Violence, Fake AH Crew, M/M, Pining, the original male character is a replacement for you know who
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27027001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peantutbutter/pseuds/peantutbutter
Summary: Jeremy doesn't believe in God, but pinned down by a volley of gunfire without his partner and the coms dead, he thinks now is as good a time as any to start praying.
Relationships: Jeremy Dooley/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	no atheists in foxholes

**Author's Note:**

> Death to JRH, long live the OC. Nate is a FAHC oc I've had brewing in my head for a while, but he never really solidified into his own being. Until now. I'm still working out the kinks with him and trying to nail down characterization, but I think I have a vague idea of what I'm doing. 
> 
> Is this good an well written? No. Did I take my time writing this rather than slapping it together in a few hours? Also no. Is it self-indulgent as hell? Awww, yeah it is. 
> 
> Anyway, Alternate Battle Buddies universe where Nate is Jeremy's partner instead.

It takes a lot to phase Jeremy.

It comes with being a soldier. Comes when one day he’s hunting for Bigfoot and the next he’s fighting zombies and trying to kill Hitler — and really how hard is it for that guy to stay dead? He’s been to Hell and back, seen horrors far beyond what anyone his age should ever see. Stood at the precipice of fear and death and told the monsters to come at him. Stared them right in the eye and told them “Not fucking today.”

Jeremy Dooley eats fear for breakfast.

So when he realizes he’s afraid — really, truly, genuinely afraid — he doesn’t know what to do.

He was separated from his partner not long after they infiltrated the compound, and his coms have been dead for the past twenty minutes. He doesn’t know what happened to his Battle Buddy, only that all of a sudden all he got was static whenever he tried to radio in. The silence was the worst part. Keeping his breathing low and shallow, his footfalls slow and soft against the concrete as he made his way through the base. And then he triggered an alarm and it was almost a goddamn turkey shoot. A bullet tears clean through his leg and he barely had enough time to duck behind a barrier before a hailstorm of bullets rained down on him.

It’s in this moment of narrowly turning into swiss cheese that he realizes three things: He’s alone. He has no idea whether his Battle Buddy is dead or alive. And he’s scared.

Scared his partner is dead. Scared that he’s going to die. Scared that he’s going to die without his partner by his side. There’s always been some small part of him that’s known this was probably how he was going to meet his end. He just doesn’t want it to be so soon. There are so many things he hasn’t done yet. So many things he hasn’t said. So many things he still wants to do and say. Bits of concrete chip and fly around him. The smell of gunpowder and blood makes his head spin, and for alive as he feels, a sense of dread gnaws at his stomach.

He fires blindly, not daring risk his head or any other vital body part, until he runs out of bullets. Adrenaline courses through his veins, and he’s not sure which is louder, the echoing gunfire or his pulse pounding in his ears. His fingers fumble for spare ammo, checking each pouch and pocket and…fuck. There’s only one clip left. He stares at it, the weight cold and heavy like a condemnation in his hands. Out of bullets. Out of luck. Out of time. This is where it ends, isn’t it?

He doesn’t believe in God, hasn’t for a long time, but he thinks that if there is one out there, now is as good a time as any to start trying to make amends.

With a shuddering breath, he reloads his gun, and does something he hasn’t done since he was a kid back in Boston. For the first time in almost fifteen years, Jeremy prays.

The gunfire comes to a halt and his mouth moves silently as he makes his pleas. Gun gripped tight in his hands, he’s ready to shoot anyone who dares get too close. Then he hears a soft clinking sound of something metallic being thrown onto the ground. Hears it roll across the concrete, and then all of a sudden he can’t see. He’s not even looking directly at it, but white light flashes, blinding him. Black dots swarm his vision and his eyes burn, and he’s gripping his gun even tighter. Finger trained on the trigger, his heart races as he strains his remaining senses.

The twangs of a string.

High pitched whistles cutting through the air.

Sickening squelches and wet choking noises followed by the distinct thuds of bodies falling dead to the floor.

A smile quirks at Jeremy’s lips. He reaches for the Celtic Cross he keeps around his neck and gives it a kiss, and he thinks, just for a second, that maybe God does exist.

He’s blinking rapidly, trying to clear his own vision and keep the world from swimming as it starts coming back into focus. He’s seeing double, triple even, as his surroundings morph from blurred shapes into defined figures.

And then Nate is there. Beautiful, terrifying Nate with his dark brown hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and covered in the blood of his enemies. Someday Jeremy will tell him how he really feels. Someday he’ll be brave enough. But for now, he’s just glad his Buddy is still alive.

He must still seem out of it, because Nate takes his face in his gloved hands, trying to get his attention. “You still with me, Jer?”

Slowly, Jeremy nods, leaning into his touch a little more than he probably should. “Yeah,” he answers. “Yeah, I’m here. Did you get them all?”

“Yeah, bud, I sure did,” Nate says. He’s out of breath, and the quiver on his back is void of arrows. Christ, there must have been a lot of them.

“What about the target?” Jeremy asks. He’s going to be no good in a fight with his leg the way it is, but he’d be more than able to hold a position to let his partner finish the job.

“Him too,” Nate says, but there’s something strange in the way he says it. A weird twitch in his lip that Jeremy’s never seen before.

But he lets it slide. Maybe it’s just the stress. Maybe Nate was as worried about Jeremy as he was for him. “Cool. Good,” Jeremy says, and maybe he’s a little disappointed he didn’t get to experience that fight. Maybe he’s a little embarrassed that he got caught and pinned down, and Nate had to come in and rescue him like some sort of archer knight in kevlar armor. And then, lamely, he says, “I can’t move.”

Nate’s eyes flick down to Jeremy’s thighs, sees the blood oozing from a gunshot wound, and his eyes go wide. “No, I s’pose you can’t,” he murmurs. Dark brows knit together in concern as he leans closer to examine it. Jeremy hisses in pain as cloth from his pant leg is peeled away. Fuck that’s a lot of blood. But Nate isn’t panicking, so he thinks that’s a good sign. “Well, I’ve got some bad news for you, Jeremy.”

Oh, fuck, maybe he was wrong. His mouth goes a little dry. “What?”

“You’ve been shot in the leg,” and the bastard can barely contain that stupid shit eating grin that Jeremy usually wants nothing more than to kiss. Except this time he kind of wants to slap it. “The good news,” Nate continues, tearing clean pieces of fabric from the lower half of Jeremy’s pant leg to use as a bandage, “is that it missed your femoral artery. You won’t die…Probably.”

Jeremy tilts his head back, letting it rest on the barrier, and coughs out a laugh. “You’re a bitch, you know that, right?”

“You say that like you hate it,” Nate hums, tying the makeshift bandages tightly around Jeremy’s thigh. Jeremy tries not to think of how those deft hands would feel just a little higher up. Then Nate leans back on his haunches, and moves to wrap Jeremy’s arm around his shoulder. “Now, c’mon. Let’s get out of here.”

Jeremy lets Nate haul him to his feet. He’s always surprised by the strength underneath those lean and lithe muscles. Not that he’s skinny or gangly or anything. He just isn’t as broad as Jeremy, and tends to prefer speed and agility over brute force. The height difference is a little awkward as they stumble through the compound. Dead bodies litter the halls, arrows sticking out of them like disgusting oversized porcupines, and, somewhere in the buzz of blood loss, Jeremy thinks it’s a little strange Nate hasn’t stopped to collect his arrows.

They manage to hobble to the jeep they left parked a good mile and a half away from their target location. Nate helps him into the passenger side before tossing a duffel bag Jeremy hadn’t even realized he was carrying into the back seat. He watches Nate move around the car, eyeing him warily as he climbs in and turns the key in the ignition. Wordlessly, Nate navigates them back to the only well defined road cutting through the jungle.

Something feels off. Nate’s too on edge for this to have been a mission completed and a job well done. He’s too tense. Eyes shifting between the road and the mirrors like they’re being chased.

Jeremy licks his lips and asks the question that’s been bothering him ever since it happened. “So what happened to the coms back there? I thought you were dead.”

Nate’s fingers flex around the steering wheel. “Lost them in a scuffle with the target,” he says simply. And his voice is too even, too level, like he’s practiced the answer before giving it to him. Jeremy is silent. He doesn’t believe him. Gives him a look that says as much when he finally glances over to see if Jeremy bought the bullshit. “What?”

“Nate, what the fuck is wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says, but he lifts a hand off the wheel to tap at his ear. At where his coms would be. “I’m fine.”

Jeremy blinks, momentarily confused, but then he thinks he understands. “Alright, if you’re sure,” he says slowly. “Hurry up and get us to that safe house. My leg is going numb.” He lets the conversation die there, and gives it another twenty minutes before tearing the coms unit from his ear and tossing it into the thick foliage on the side of the road.

Alright, well, now that he’s committed an act of desertion, he’s entitled to some damn answers. “What the actual fuck is going on?”

“Duffel in the back seat has everything you need to know,” Nate responds. And, shit, man, it’s not an answer Jeremy likes, but at least his partner’s marginally less tense. Jeremy frowns, but twists around to fish the duffel from the back, and pulls it forward. He has to dig through a number of miscellaneous supplies — ammo, guns, medkits, even some arrows — until he finds something unlike everything else. His fingers brush a thick stack of paper, and he pulls out a manila folder.

He’s not sure what he expects when he flips it open, but seeing his own photograph staring back at him certainly isn’t it. His frown deepens. This is his personnel file. Except it’s not. The medical records are different. He doesn’t recognize what half the shit listed is, but he does know a handful of them are steroids. Steroids he definitely doesn’t remember getting pumped full of. He shakes his head, but keeps flipping. Nate's file is paper-clipped after his. A lot of the medications listed are similar. What the fuck is going on?

Field reports from their handlers. Psych evals listing behaviors that would make any soldier horrendously unfit for duty, yet here they are, still operating out in the field. Orders from higher ups to _keep them out in the field_. Correspondence from the Director of the Agency to their supervisors detailing all sorts of nefarious plots to use him and Nate to overthrow and destabilize various governments all for the sake of lining the Director’s pockets and garnering power somewhere in the shadows. It makes his stomach lurch. He can’t believe what he’s reading. It can’t possibly be true.

But he holds up the papers to the light, sees the watermark that only Agency stationary has, and he has his answer. He sits for a long while, papers stacked in his lap. “We’re not going to an Agency safe house, are we,” he asks quietly.

Nate casts him a sympathetic look from the corners of his eyes. “No, we’re not.”

“Where are we going then?” His voice is so small, so timid, so unlike everything he is. But fuck, man, it feels a bit like the world is crashing down around him. He always knew he was a weapon, had made a certain sense of peace with that, but this was something else entirely.

“First we’re going to find someplace to lie low for a bit and get your leg patched up. But after that, Los Santos.”

Jeremy lets out a breath of relief, thankful that at least one of them has a plan, even if it is a vague one. Carefully, he slips the folder back in the duffel and leaves it sitting by his feet in the footwell. “Why Los Santos?” He’s never been, but has always kind of wanted to visit.

“Got a friend out there,” Nate explains. “She should be able to help us out. Or at the very least point us in the right direction of someone who can.”

“And you trust her?”

Nate tears his gaze away from the road long enough to lock eyes with Jeremy. “With my life,” he says firmly.

And shit, that’s good enough for Jeremy. Nate trusts his friend, and Jeremy trusts Nate. That’s how this relationship works. “Okay,” he sighs. “Alright. We’re doing this.”

Nate’s hands flex around the wheel some more and a vein throbs in his jaw each time he clenches and unclenches his teeth. “I didn’t mean to drag you into this,” he says. “It shouldn’t have happened this way.”

Jeremy’s not sure what he’s talking about, what it all means, or how much Nate might have known going into the mission, but it’s a little for _should have, would have, could have_. All that matters is that they’ve both got each other’s backs. There will be time for Jeremy to ask questions later.

Hesitantly, he puts a hand on Nate’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Hey,” he says, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. “We’re going to be okay.”

The fingers on Nate’s right hand twitch, and _slowly, oh, so slowly_ , he releases the wheel. He’s convinced Nate is just going to bat his hand away, brush him off because he doesn’t swing that way, but instead he takes Jeremy’s hand and brings it towards his mouth. “I’d be lost without you,” he murmurs, lips pressing a kiss against his knuckles.

Oh. _Oh._ Well that’s…something. Jeremy flushes pink, and he wants to blame it on the tropical heat and humidity, but they both know it’d be a lie. Nate lets their hands fall between them, resting gently near the gearshift. With one hand on the wheel, and the other with his fingers interweaved with Jeremy’s he drives them deeper into the jungle.

Jeremy should probably be frightened. In the span of barely an hour, he’s deserted the Agency that gave him everything, gone rogue, and now has a target painted on his back. This is a bad idea. They probably already have someone looking for them, probably have the moment they realized neither of them have their coms unit anymore. It’s terrifying. It’s an awful situation. But he’s not afraid. He’s got Nate by his side, got Nate’s hand fit perfectly in his like it’s meant to be there.

There’s no one else he’d rather take on the world with, and part of him is excited that they actually might.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr @peantutbutter for shenanigans sometimes idk


End file.
